


Brollylock Holmes

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Mycroft's high-functioning umbrella, Other, Sherlock is an umbrella, a high-functioning umbrella, and he needs to get out of the closet, brollylock, mycroft holmes's umbrella - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4166085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Brollylock Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do Umbrellas Dream Of Electric Plugs?

Nothing. Not a single drop. And I'm about to go mad. I need some.  
Eight days bundled tight in this constrictive strap, with an overwheming desire for release.

It's no life for a Fox Model RGS2 Umbrella-- that's me by the way, hello--with a bespoke hollowed-out compartment concealed within the malacca handle. The only one in the world. But am I out amongst the elements? No. I... am in a closet. It feels as if I have been in one for 128 years.

The wellies sit beside me-- placid, barely used-- as they are only worn when the act of walking through puddles is absolutely unavoidable. For our client, such legwork is a rarity. The mac, dusty with disuse. But I... I should be out there, whether amongst the deluge, with torrents out of control and nothing but my wiry frame and taut black fabric to protect him from the onslaught, or in a gentle mist, secure that I am there, should conditions ever worsen. This disuse is intolerable.

This is London, not Dubai. London– its streets a great cesspool into which all kinds of drifting, tumbling, airbourne water is irresistibly drained. Eight days is far too long to have gone without any precipitation whatsoever, and a man of such regular habits would not abandon his sole means of protection. Therefore, there must be another--procured during my unfortunate and unavoidable absence, when I was detained at a security checkpoint in Eastern Europe for two weeks. 

They hadn't appreciated my exceedingly sharp ferrule. Or rather... they had. Ever since the murder of Georgi Markov on the streets of London using a micro-engineered ricin pellet fired into the leg via an umbrella, security has been particularly cautious. Generally, airport employees miss my more... unique... features. They are idiots who lower the IQ of the whole continent. But this one, this particular worker, had been more observant than most. My client was forced to make the journey without me, returning to liberate me from that hellish prison only at the end of his appointment.

My replacement was likely another Fox, as no brand could possibly prove superior. Not enough time to make a custom handle. I deduce it is, therefore, a more elaborate one… trading my sleek practicality for a more decorative style. Bamboo, perhaps? Whatever it may be, we’ll have to get rid of it. The trick is simply to be noticed again. He will remember my utility if I simply provide a reminder of what it was like...the thrill of the downpour, the water dripping over my ribs... just he and I against the forces of nature.

Of course, a plan will be required to escape this predicament, and being a high-functioning parapluie, any such plan would be easily conceived and actualised. Nearing twenty-to-eight. Precious little time, as he will soon be leaving the Diogenes for home. What have I to work with?

The fuse box is to my left, mid-way up the closet wall. A thick metal bar suspends the mac, a fur-trimmed winter coat, a three-piece suit, two impeccably starched collared shirts and two ties. On the floor: dress shoes, wellies, snow boots. A large jug of bottled water which pains me to even so much as glance at, I so long to feel it beat against my canopy. It is bad enough sensing the heavy, humid air of this enclosed space against my springs. Next to it is a cardboard box, laden with several dense manuscripts. Above, a small silver protrusion-- a sprinkler system built into the ceiling--and an equally small sensor vent in front. An access panel with what can only be a panic button-based alarm system lies far beyond my reach. Even if I could somehow manage to trip it, it would not be enough if I merely called brief attention to myself as he as rushed past to disable the alarm-- doubtless thought triggered by a depleted battery. I need to be both seen and _useful_ in order to be carried away in those graceful and competent hands once again. I rest my rib tips against my collar and think.

 _If the volume of material through which the current flows is smaller than the fusable link... Sparks...older copper wiring... files as combustibles...ignition temperatures to initiate a self-sustaining exothermic oxidation reaction._ Of course, it could be dangerous, playing with fire, but he would come at once. What do I have access to which will catch easily enough, but won't produce flames strong enough to devour me? And can I produce a spark with which to coax it to life? Or, more to the point, can I produce smoke? Lots of it. 

One occasionally nice thing about never living is you can never die...even if bits of you are jammed into a power outlet. 

It would damage my structure, of course, but not enough to impact functionality. And it would most certainly be painful. I can, indeed, feel. But it will be worth a wound--it will be worth many wounds--to extricate myself from the depths of that closet and again know the loyalty and love which lay beyond it-- being held firmly in that cold mist once again.


	2. Rainy is the New Sexy

The dossier is packed tightly, creating almost a solid mass. With luck, it will be a slow burn. A quick tap to the mac, and just a bit of dusty lint falls directly on me, making me feel that much drier. Wholly unpleasant. A few more blows, and I have a decent pile of highly flammable material, which I attempt to push around the area beneath the socket. I’ve only one chance. If it doesn’t catch before the fuse blows, resetting the breaker would be theoretically possible, but far from guaranteed. I manage to balance a bit of the material on a rib tip and prepare myself as best I can for whatever impact making contact with the power source will have on my frame. I am not, myself, electric, but as a conductor of electricity I am unbeatable.

It is painful. Pain is not a common thing, in my experience. I try to analyse it, in the hopes that the distraction will make it more tolerable. It is of little help. No need to describe it to you. That benefits neither of us. But the end result, it is worth the effort. Starting with crackling and hissing, I will it to shut up and smoke. Then there are sparks. Many sparks. Beautiful, golden rain pours from the socket. The lint and dust on my rib has been dislodged, but the now melting tip, it is hot enough that a mere touch ignites the remaining mess at my ferrule. The papers smoulder ever so slightly. I hope it is enough. When the smoke rises, the alarm will trigger, the sprinkler system will release, and I will be useful. Yes, an umbrella shouldn’t be opened indoors, but neither should it ever be raining therein.

Now, I must achieve maximum visibility. I allow myself to tip forward again, putting as much force as I can muster against the edge of the antique locking mechanism. The humidity has swollen the wood, so the latching is sporadic. It gives way, with my determined effort and some marring on both our parts. I fall forward, as anticipated. Now there is nothing to do but wait. The smoke curls up, and I am faced with the possibility of igniting before I am able to be used again. To provide help in the form of shelter…my greatest joy and privilege.

I am fortunate. The flames are slowed by their struggle against the dense paper which, I suspect, may be slightly damp, and the smoke is abundant. It reaches the sensor and trips an audible alarm. Then it happens. The water falls down from the ceiling. It has been there for some time, and I rebel against the stagnation, freeing the water from its reserves. It is a near thing, the closest I have felt to rain in quite some time, but I am furled, and it disappoints.

I knew my client would arrive with great haste, and suddenly there he is. The man’s eyes take in my state, the outlet, the papers, and then, to my abject horror, he uses the copy of the London Financial Times tucked beneath his arm as a makeshift headcovering, stepping over me, and disabling the alarm. The reset code, oddly enough, seems to correspond to his measurements. 

“I have always held that umbrella use should be a distinctly open-air pastime,” he says, as he walks back to the doorway and kneels down beside me. “Clever. I was wondering how you would manage to get me to retrieve you.”

My canopy gapes open.

“My name is Mycroft Holmes. It is my business to know what other people do not know. A _sentient umbrella_. When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I need to keep an eye on you. Umbrellas are never to be entirely trusted. Not the best of them.”

Had I the power of speech, I would have paused to argue over that atrocious statement.

“And you also have the grand gift of silence. While that is fairly typical of an umbrella, it does make you quite invaluable as a companion. There’s a storm coming, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, and a good many umbrellas may wither before its blast. You’re an umbrella. In fact, I’d say you’re a high-functioning parapluie. You’ve seen a lot of rain, violent storms. Shall we see some more, then?”

I tremble ever so slightly as he places me in his hands, stopping to lightly stroke the damaged wood of my handle, and all I can think of is _Oh, God, yes._


End file.
